


keep adding pressure to the wound

by ospreyx



Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Relapse, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29654475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ospreyx/pseuds/ospreyx
Summary: With Qrow out of commission, James must pick up the pieces.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen & James Ironwood
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	keep adding pressure to the wound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AndyAstral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndyAstral/gifts).



> a birthday gift for andy ! sickfics aren't my thing but i love you dearly so here u go ♡
> 
> not important enough to tag, but there's definitely some background silver shamrock & trans qrow if you squint _really_ hard

It starts slowly, as all problems do.

It is like pressure that builds - gradually, indefinitely, swelling with a light enough strain to go by unnoticed until it is too late. James is one of the first to recognize it, manifesting itself in the form of perpetually lowered Aura levels and his friend nowhere in sight once the sunset gave way to night.

It does not start right away. It does not start when Qrow finally comes to him one night, covered in a sheen of sweat and quaking almost too hard to stand. It does not start when Qrow admits to needing help, because he made a promise and because he does not trust himself to resist reaching for the bottle alone. It does not start then, not for a few weeks, and certainly not the rare few times that Qrow comes to him when he needs it the most.

It starts a few months in, long after the shakes become more tolerable than they were on the first night of his road to sobriety.

Qrow completes his morning patrol before he requests the rest of the day off. It is sudden, and normally, James would balk at the audacity, but the behavior is so abnormal that he approves the request and contacts Qrow himself. If there is one thing Qrow is, it is dedicated; he may be bold, but never to the extent that it hinders him as a Huntsman.

The texts are dramatic, as they always are when he’s sick and wallowing. He mentions something about an ache, another thing about nausea, a few things about his impending doom before James stops paying attention. He visits after an evening meeting and about half a stack of paperwork, a bag in hand and a thermos full of soup.

“I'm dying,” Qrow groans as soon as he walks in, “this is it. It’s over for me, Jim, you know which drawer to torch before Tai starts packing my stuff away.”

James tosses a distasteful glance his way. “I’m not touching that, so you have no choice but to drop the theatrics and do it yourself.”

He sets the bag down on the counter and hands Qrow the thermos. As Qrow inspects its contents, he brings out the heating pad and painkillers that he brought, one of which was profusely begged for in one of the many texts Qrow sent. Interestingly enough, Qrow sets the thermos aside after one sip with a withering look.

“Thought you had my back,” Qrow absentmindedly mumbles. He curls further in on himself, a tad more strained as he continues, “You were my only hope. You’re awful. You’re bad.”

“Am I?” James absentmindedly hums.

He throws an idle glance to the digital clock on the nightstand. He has another half hour before he must tend to obligations, but that is more than enough time. Qrow never does ask for much - not because he does not wish to, but because he knows better to. That is one thing that has never changed about him; he is never one to ask for more than is given, and James will always give more than he knows how to ask for.

That is when Qrow notices the heating pad, already warm in James’ hand as it is offered. He blinks, then snorts, “You kept that? I don’t even get cramps anymore.”

"It seemed like a waste to throw it out.”

With the way Qrow melts against the pillows, he supposes it was also a good idea to bring it despite not knowing what kind of ache it was. Seemingly sated, Qrow sighs, “I take it all back. You’re great.”

James laughs in spite of himself.

* * *

Time passes before they belatedly notice that the pain inevitably follows after every meal. It doesn’t seem to matter what it is - James brings soups and plain bread, but they never do sit well. Painkillers are cycled through, recipes are sorted and attempted, but not once does anything seem to help. Each time the possibility of a doctor is brought up, Qrow vehemently rejects him.

He supposes he should expect that, though, when Qrow’s constant excuse for staying out of a doctor’s office is that his performance out in the field has yet to be hindered. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised when Qrow fails to acknowledge that this is only because he delays his meals until after each patrol and supply run.

But eventually, something changes. It is during one of those fleeting visits in between meetings that it happens. Like any other time, James arrives with light foods and painkillers, but this time, Qrow does not bother touching either.

This time, he finds Qrow shaking, gasping, not crying but frighteningly close to it.

Never before has he looked so frail. Never before has he looked so close to breaking, as if his bones are made out of glass, as if they are as hollow as the eyes that gaze blearily up at James when he comes close. His hands are shaking, as well, but not because he struggles to refrain from reaching into an empty breast pocket. He quakes hard enough to drop the heating pad when it is passed to him, so James picks it up instead.

“Maybe I _am_ dying,” Qrow says in between ragged breaths, “fuck, maybe - maybe I am -”

He trails off, any semblance of a joke long gone. Something about that is cruel, disarming, like the finality of a loss cemented in stone, like the chipped engravings of a blade that can no longer draw blood. James presses the heating pad to his abdomen and holds it there for him, and he lets out a wounded noise. 

“Sounds like you’re giving up on me,” James tries to tease, but the words are too raw, the air too heavy, the skin beneath his hand too feverish.

Qrow’s eyes flutter shut, but it is not bliss. For once, James is not sure if there is mirth or resignation in his tone when he says, “I might be.”

He recognizes this as well, despite how badly he wishes he did not. It stems beyond the diet, the hiding, the fighting. It goes far past the shakes and the aches and the meticulously kept mask that only falls when he is alone. It’s the fact that he’s trying; it’s the grip that grows slack, the bright eyes that try their best to focus, the array of painkillers that lay hidden in his medicine cabinet.

It’s also the fact that _none of it is working_ , and James does not know what to do.

“You need to go to the hospital, Qrow.”

Already, Qrow is scowling at the thought, starting, “No, I -”

“I don’t want to have to admit you.”

Qrow levels him with a glare, if it can be called one. Glassy-eyed, fragile, but a glare nonetheless. He huffs, shakily, brokenly. James recognizes it as a laugh, or whatever is left of one. “You wouldn’t.”

“Normally, I wouldn’t,” James quietly says, “but this isn’t normal, and you’re only getting worse.”

Qrow sets his jaw. He might argue against it if he was able to. He might fight, might sneer, might carry this on until something gives, but he does not. Because fleetingly, the fire in his eyes begins to waver, to draw itself back to a weak smoulder rather than a steadfast burn.

“I know,” he admits - relents. “I know that. I’ll go, I just -”

James places one hand on his shoulder. He feels like petals made to fall, paper made to tear, autumn leaves made to crumble. “At least go before the end of the week. I’ll have Clover clear your schedule until then.”

Qrow does not nod, but he also does not argue.

* * *

A week passes, and Qrow stops answering his Scroll.

James only discovers this because Clover tells him. There is a slight edge to his tone, halfway to the evening but nowhere near done with the many scheduled obligations he has. He relays the details of the band of newbie Huntsmen and Huntresses who ambushed him before their daily tasks to ask about where Qrow was, because apparently, he is not answering any texts.

And apparently, he is not in his room, either.

James does not find him until later that evening, and even then, it only happens by chance. It happens when he takes one lingering glance out the window, wondering about everything and nothing and all of the details in between. It is then when he sees the black lump that lays on the windowsill, curled and shivering but otherwise motionless against the ledge.

Even as a bird, as something inherently fragile, there is still something distinctly vulnerable about Qrow that James does not recognize. The bird does not stir when James snaps the window open. It does not respond when it is scooped up into his hands, lighter than air, thinner than the bones in its small body. It trembles terribly in his hands, worsening as it is placed down against a pillow, and dimly, it cracks one eye open to glance up at him.

It looks dazed, perhaps not entirely there, and idly, James wonders if this is yet another concussion that must be dealt with. He nudges one gloved finger against its beak, murmuring, “You should’ve known that my window would be closed.”

It makes a ragged noise. Its eye squeezes shut, and quickly, it shifts once more; between one blink and the next, it is tall and lithe again with naught more than feathers left behind. Except immediately, James recognizes that this is not something as simple as a concussion.

Qrow does not curl further than he already is, but he tries. Tries, then falls short with a wounded noise. His chest heaves, skin glistens with sweat, the front of his shirt sticky with what might be bile. Already, James catches the smell of whiskey, but this is not the same as any other time that Qrow has come to him drunk or hungover.

Qrow tries to speak, but the attempt falls out of his grasp as quickly as sand through a sieve. Somehow, he looks as hollow as the bones of his corvid form, ready to splinter at even the slightest pressure. Somehow, he looks small, smaller than he has ever been, smaller than the noise he makes when James reaches for one trembling hand. This is something different, something foreign, something _perilous._

He has never looked so close to breaking.

So close to dying.

* * *

James has been here before.

It feels like a dream in more ways than one. Long hallways and glasslike silence, fluorescent lights and an atmosphere thinner than the skin of his wrist and just as easy to slice through - he knows this place, knows it like he knows the stretch of his own metal, and he wishes he did not. He has been in this impassive eternity several times before, but this time, he is not the one who lays thin and broken on what might be a deathbed.

He does not dare speak, not when Qrow is still and silent before him. There is a tentative stillness to the air around him, ready to fall apart at any moment, not something pretty like a house of cards but vulnerable like cracked glass. Bleary eyes squint against the fluorescent lights above, and automatically, James leans over to switch them off. 

Without the bright lights there to illuminate him, Qrow looks less pallid. Less deathly, but still just as sickly. He looks thinner than air, than water, than the sheen of sweat that coats his skin. He looks nothing like himself, and finally, James thinks he understands why it is that Qrow was always so uncomfortable when he would stop by to visit.

It’s a dreadful sight, now that James finds his sight drawn to the machinery like a moth to the flame. 

Tubes hang low, some draining and others pumping, all attached to bags of nameless fluids that hang heavy nearby. James blinks once, twice, and maybe he should turn the lights back on, he belatedly realizes, or maybe he should squeeze his eyes shut - but even with his eyes closed, he knows this place - he’s been here before, been here broken, been here _dying_ , bandages like a second skin and staples pinched against flesh and tubes bulging hot under his ribs -

“James."

Clarity comes in patches, like a map that catches fire and withers out of relevance. Still in a hospital, still dressed white, but no longer half-lucid, half-coherent, _half-alive_. He almost does not recognize Qrow’s voice, and if he was not there to see it, he might not have believed that it was him.

“You didn’t have to come here.”

Fleetingly, James finds himself wishing that Qrow would not speak. Wishes he would stay silent, because his voice, thin and ragged and nothing like it should be, only cements that the splintered shell of a man that James sees before him is indeed Qrow Branwen. He shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, but he does not dare leave just yet.

The first night is always hell, but it must be even more so for Qrow.

The twins were never good with hospitals, that much James knows. He remembers the first hospital visit for both of them; Raven with lungs full of blood, Qrow with twin scars on his chest, both of them fighting tooth and nail to leave the moment they awakened. If there is one thing that always stays the same, it is Qrow’s resistance to hospitals.

So it is particularly harrowing seeing him so pliant now.

James shakes his head. “No one has to deal with this alone.”

That particular line is recited verbatim, but now, it is no longer referring to shattered bones and shredded tendons. It is no longer referring to metal heavier than gravity and Dust rattling against cylinders from within, and it is more harrowing than it has the right to be, repeating something that Qrow said to him so long ago.

Qrow seems to recognize it, and were he not so fragile, were he not hanging by a few thin threads, James knows he would have laughed. Would have joked like he used to, made light of the situation like he always did. Instead, he says in a thin whisper, “I guess so.”

James pulls out his Scroll. “Ruby and Yang are out on a supply run, but I’ll make sure to tell them -”

“Don’t,” Qrow rasps out, sudden, frantic, and were it not for the IV drip tethered to the back of his hand, James wonders if he would have reached out to take the Scroll from him. “They shouldn’t see me like this. It’s fine. _I’m_ fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“Well, I’m gonna be.” Qrow wavers, then says, “The kids, they don’t need to see - _this._ ”

James does not need him to elaborate. In that way, they are the same. There is a different kind of peace that comes with being hidden, with staying quiet, as if that stops the severity of the situation from delving lower than it already has. It is one of the many reasons that Qrow was the only one to stay with him. Both because he had no one else, and because he would not have it any other way.

“So you’re going to opt out of telling them.”

“. . . Yeah,” Qrow answers, weaker than he was before.

“And you call me the chronic liar.”

“‘Cause you are,” Qrow quips. He is still ragged, still splintered, still a shell of what he used to be, but that habit alone is enough to bring a mild twinge of relief beneath James’ sternum. “I just . . . don’t want this to be the last time they see me. I don’t want them to remember me like this.”

The admission is small, quiet. He looks more fragile than he already is, somehow, pallid skin weaved like a newly spun web and bones melded from thin glass and both just as ready to break. Gently, James says, “It won’t be.”

Qrow seems to soften at that. He takes another slow, shuddering breath, as if filling his lungs is an ache of its own, then says, “Feels like it will be.”

There is a visceral sort of familiarity that accompanies the words, more than James is ready to handle. It is an odd feeling that settles in his chest, swells and strains and threatens to crack through flesh and bone; he is nothing but a pulse for a long moment, watching Qrow refuse to meet his eye, listening to the heart rate monitor that only seems to grow more distant with time.

He is not the one with narcotics thrumming in his veins and infection running hot through the tubes bulging beneath his skin, but nevertheless, he hurts all the same. Hurts enough to put the Scroll away, hurts enough to reach out and set a hand over Qrow’s. James is gentle before he realizes it, and that hurts, as well.

He squeezes Qrow’s hand carefully, tentatively, as if any more pressure will break him.

Maybe he will break, now that he has the chance to.

“They’re still going to visit,” James tells him. “Who do you think sent Clover and I looking?”

The corner of Qrow’s lips fleetingly crooks just so. “Lock the door on your way out.”

“Do you genuinely think that can stop your nieces?”

At that, Qrow finally smiles. If he did not look like he was made to shatter, James might have seen something like amusement in him.

“Nope.”

* * *

James steps out once Qrow begins to doze off, not too long before Ruby and Yang return from the patrol that they had set out on that morning. The younger of the two is already inside, whirling right past him and through the door before anyone could stop her.

Yang is still here, not quaking but close to it. “He relapsed, didn’t he?” she asks, enough of an accusation to give James pause. When he does not answer, she bites out, “He always - he always _does this_.”

On one hand, James does not blame her. There is enough conviction in her for a lifetime, and enough understanding in him to know that this is not the first offense. But on the other, he cannot help the small flare of irritation that sparks just beneath his skin, raking its way through wire and vein alike.

“That implies that he wanted this to happen,” James responds. “I’m sure he’s blaming himself enough. Recovery isn’t seamless, as you and I both know.”

Yang’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second. He recognizes the guilt in her then, sees the way her gaze flickers down towards her prosthetic, painted yellow and glistening bright under fluorescent lights. The fire in her is not gone, not just yet, smouldering strong and simmering like blood, but at the very least, there is no spark behind the gunpowder, no fuse burning to ash.

“He was doing really good until now,” Yang tells him. “He was with us all night, I - I don’t know what happened.”

James does not have to guess what happened. He does not have to speculate what it was that took a hammer to glass when Qrow was the one who told him. Bleary-eyed from narcotics, distant from something deeper, several miles away when he admitted that he was alone, and that he was _tired_ \- tired, so tired, tired of the pain, tired of the hunger, tired of fighting the one thing that has been keeping him up at night.

“This isn’t something that people can control. I imagine it’d be much easier to handle if that were the case,” he says instead, because that is not his story to tell, not his secret to share. “Sometimes, it’s the little things. Sometimes, it’s nothing. But each time is a little harder than the last, and there’s no one to blame but the addiction itself.”

She does not flinch at that, but she comes close to it. She glances fleetingly as the door, then asks, “Is it always like this?”

“For a while, yes.”

Yang takes in slow, steadying breath. Holds it long enough to hurt, exhales harshly enough to splinter the careful stillness of the empty hallway. It is not resignation, though, that much James knows; it is acceptance, and that is all Qrow needs.

* * *

The time that follows Qrow’s discharge goes by painfully slow.

The first few weeks are the worst. They are back to square one - extremely rare nights where Qrow’s hands are shaking in his, skin clammy and breaths stilted, constant reiterations of _I want it_ and _I didn’t mean to_ that James must soothe until it finally passes.

Nothing trumps the flare up that sent Qrow to the hospital the first time, and that is why he insists on staying out of a hospital every time it happens. As always, James is there. He is there when he can be, sometimes in the evenings, usually for minutes during the mornings. It happens rarely, and each one is as insignificant as it was before, up until it is not.

Months pass before Qrow is quaking hard enough to break, before he’s vomiting the water he drinks and holding back the almost-tears that well in his eyes after a few hours pass. The first time it happens, James is the one to hold the heating pad to Qrow’s abdomen, solely because he can no longer hold it on his own. He is also the one to bicker with him until he reveals that he hasn’t been going to the check ups that were periodically scheduled.

“You’re telling me you did this to yourself,” James flatly states.

“I didn’t _do_ anything,” Qrow scowls.

“Exactly.” It is only when James searches the freezer for ice to shave that he realizes that there is next to nothing in it. He opens the fridge, sifts fleetingly through a couple of cabinets, and upon finding nothing, he incredulously asks, “Have you been eating?”

The silence is an answer enough.

“Qrow.”

“James.”

More silence follows, briefer than the last but heavier. Tenser. For an instant, James has to wonder what it must be like in Qrow's shoes. A tremor travels down the cables of his right arm. “It’s the pain, isn’t it?”  
  
Qrow only averts his eye. 

That night ends with Qrow dressed in white and passed out on whatever concoction of narcotics and antibiotics that he has been given, but not because he relents. He merely loses the energy to fight James carrying him off to the infirmary, then loses the energy to stay awake as he is transported to a private hospital nearby.

This happens twice before he is given the proper medication. Both times, James stays for as long as he can. Listens to the way his breathing eventually evens and slows, listens until he cannot any longer. Listens to the slow, steady cadence of the heart rate monitor nearby and the occasional murmur of the nurses as they address him. Clipboards and papers, pens and dry erase markers alike in their hands, some speaking of hope, others speaking of inevitabilities.

At the very least, from that point onwards, James never finds Qrow without the bottle of supplements he was given.

But at the same time, James also never finds Qrow without the array of breathing techniques that he cycles through as he waits for the worst of it to pass.

* * *

James is a busy man. 

And nowadays, so is Qrow.

Trips to the doctor’s office remain just as frequent. It is not often that he comes to James now, with the shakes few and far in between and the pain consistent but fleeting. It is also not often that he manages to convince James to put work aside when the evening sets, but that starts to become less infrequent, as well.

Qrow’s only warning is a text - not for permission, but as a courtesy. He states his presence without a care in the world of what may be on James’ desk, and oftentimes, it is infuriating.

Infuriating, but James wouldn’t have it any other way.

For a while, however perilously optimistic it is, James allows himself to find solace in this new sense of normalcy. He leaves his window open and trusts that the rest will follow. It is unconventional, but it is something uniquely theirs. Maybe it stems from something like guilt, for this push and pull that neither of them know how to break. Maybe it is wrought from gratitude, for the late nights and the luxury rooms and the occasional professional cleaner that Qrow can’t meet the eye of. 

Maybe he just wants familiar company. Not that James blames him; too many nights stuck with drugs simmering under his skin and neighboring patients screaming for something they cannot name tends to do that to people.

There certainly are good days. The days spent in comfortable silence or with Qrow finding some kind of trouble. The days where James’ worries lie only outside Atlas’ borders and within Mantle’s dimly lit streets.

But those days are something of a far-fetched fantasy this close to rehabilitation, and soon enough, they come to an end.

James is not particularly surprised, but he is tired. More cargo trucks are going missing. Murders are being committed down in Mantle that are, miraculously, either critics or rebels - partially towards the Atlesian kingdom as a whole, but mostly towards James. Smear campaigns by the opposition that never die, not truly, not when there is always someone angry, someone hurting, someone dead.

Then there comes the report that Qrow was dropped off at the infirmary after a patrol down in Mantle, with nausea that he could not shake and a lingering ache that festered until he could not stand.

James cannot visit. Not because someone is there to stop him, but because duty’s call is greater than Qrow’s. He is able to stifle that guilt for a long while.

Clover is the one who stays until he is turned away by Qrow’s nieces. Not because they do not want him there, but because they breached the capacity limit, and it is no one’s place to deny them that.

Everything seems to fall apart quickly after that; Ruby and Yang are there, and James has missed calls that he did not notice, and already, there are referrals for surgeons to come remove what has no hope to be fixed.

He is told what Qrow’s nieces are told - that even without the excessive alcohol intake since arriving to Atlas, the damage is done. Aura cannot reverse damage that has had time to fester, and by now, it is irreparable. There is no reviving what is dead or repairing what is scarred; there is only tending to what can be healed, and compensating for what cannot.

Just under half of Qrow’s pancreas is dead, and all there is left to do is hope that he will adapt.

It feels like the moon has been shattered anew in the sky, strewn out further across the planet until there is nothing left. The situation is somehow more broken, more complicated than it was before in a way that James was not prepared for. But in the end, despite the news adding to the pile of headaches that is starting to grow insurmountable, that is not what does it. 

It is not the accusatory texts or the referrals or the clock ticking endlessly above. It is not ever-waning percentage put on Qrow’s post-surgery survival or the pack of Sabyrs that somehow breached the wall again, or the fingers being pointed James’ way with whispers of _grooming_ and _favoritism_.

The straw that breaks the camel’s back that evening is James fumbling and dropping his Scroll, and all he can manage to do is slam his fist against the desk. 

Wood splinters under the metal, sends stacks of papers tipping and spilling, knocks pencil holders out of place. For a moment, he sees white. For a moment, he sees through what might be tears that refuse to fall.

But that moment is over, and Clover is still right behind him.

He would hide away in the wake of the shame if he could, both burning and drowning in his own skin until it is impossible for him to speak. Even with papers strewn on the floor and pens rolling far out of reach, Clover does not shy away. He glances fleetingly between James and the mess, then loosens his posture in a way he only ever does when they are alone. 

That’s it, is the only thing Clover says, that’s how you cope.

* * *

James will never completely get used to seeing Qrow like this.

It takes a few long, steadying breaths before he is able to step into the room. Qrow is barely lucid by then, only half responsive to the nurses, to James, to his nieces. His eyes are glassy, the oxygen mask somehow making them seem paler, dimmer. No amount of hospital visits will ever make the sting less damaging, but at this point, James is accustomed to it.

But while he has had time to adapt, Ruby and Yang have not.

One of Qrow’s hands, now free of the many rings he wears, is in Ruby’s white-knuckled grip, and he is dilatory in squeezing her hand back. The other is in Yang’s, flesh under his palm, metal over the back of his hand. He tries to reassure them both, but the words are muted, silent. A trained response that only tells James that this is not the first time he had to say them.

Ruby is the one whose eyes glisten, who trembles almost as badly as Qrow once did, who almost refuses to let go when it is time. Yang is the one who blinks furiously before she sets her hands on Ruby’s shoulder, then steps outside, murmuring something about needing fresh air. James does not protest even if he wants to, because no soothing words can undo the years of growing up early that Yang had to do as the older sister.

There is a cold finality to the door slamming shut behind her. The room is quiet, picture-perfect except for Harbinger propped in one corner, far away from the many monitors and wires that have been pushed aside for the occasion.

Ruby rests her chin on her knees, curled up on one of the plushy chairs provided. Her gaze lingers over the spot where the bed once was, a dark corner of the room that weeps shadows like blood into fabric now that Qrow is gone with it. With her there, he recognizes that this is not his place, despite it being the only place he has been in the past few months.

Just as he is about to leave, Ruby murmurs, “Is he gonna be okay?”

Realistically, James knows that there is never such an absolute as _okay_ or _not okay_ before the results present themselves. He knows the possibilities of complications just as the doctors do, if their messy scribbles on the whiteboard across the room is anything to go by. Words sprawled fleetingly, half-thoughts and full truths, _infected_ and _necrotizing_ , both synonymous with _chronic_.

And chronic is oftentimes synonymous with _terminal_.

Nevertheless, he gently says, “He will be. Eventually.”

Ruby looks up at him, eyes bright like the moon, like molten silver left to cool from unshed tears. “How do you know that?”

“Things usually get worse before they get better.” Not a lie, but not ignorant to the gravity of the situation, either. “He’ll adapt to this,” James tells her, because what she needs is realism, what she needs is hope. “Even if it takes some time before he does.”

Ruby spares him a wounded look before she pulls the hood of her cloak back over her head. Tiredly, almost too soft for James to hear, she mumbles, “I wish he told us.”

In a way, James understands, however hypocritical it might be of him. There is no real way to explain a situation like this. Not to his nieces, not when death is something familiar to them, not when they have suffered enough loss to last them a lifetime. Maybe he wasn’t ready to tell them.

Maybe he wasn’t ready to believe it.

“I’m sure he wishes he did, as well,” James responds, and there is enough understanding in his voice for the tears that glistened like starlight in Ruby’s eyes to fall.

* * *

It is the first night in years that James clears the rest of his schedule for the night.

It is also the first night in years that he does not worry about what will come tomorrow.

For a while, he does not worry about the threat that lingers beyond Atlas’ borders or the problem that crawls through Mantle’s alleyways. He does not worry about the array of meetings he has scheduled for the next day, or even about whether or not there will be another day to see. He does not worry about the inevitabilities, but he also does not ignore them.

He only worries about what will happen now that Qrow is awake.

He does not leave despite Clover’s quiet urge to. He is tethered there the same way that Remnant is tethered to the sun, rooted in place at the sight of something stronger than glass but weaker than bone. Qrow is wheeled past, as pale as death and as fragile as life, but nevertheless, he is _alive_ , and neither he nor Qrow’s nieces are being informed of a potential deadline to prepare for.

All it takes is Clover’s hand over the back of his own when he is sure that the waiting room is empty, squeezing lightly before he lets go. All it takes is that small allowance, and finally, James lets out the breath he has been holding.

“There’s still tomorrow,” Clover tells him, and for once, he believes it.

* * *

Qrow has never looked this fragile before, either.

Except it is a different kind of fragile, now. He does not look like lakewater just a breath away from breaking or like a finely spun thread just a tug away from tearing. He does not look like he is porcelain made to shatter or a ghost made to be forgotten. He does not look like he is a mere inch away from falling, a hair away from splintering, a heartbeat away from letting go.

He looks fragile in the same way that an early winter sunrise is fragile - something soft, something gentle, something that takes its much needed time to pierce the veil before it shines anew. He looks thinner than before, paler, but there is more life in him now than James has ever seen in the past few months.

There is an empty tray in front of him, and for once, he does not quake. There is no heating pad or bottle of useless painkillers in sight, and for once, he does not gasp and curl in on himself and pray for it to come to an end. There is only life there - life in his eyes, life in the way they shine, life in their pink shimmer like that of the ribbon of sunlight against the horizon as the new day begins.

“You didn’t have to come.”

It’s said with the slightest lilt of the laugh. With a smile, as well, a smile like any other. Crooked, teasing, a little weaker than he’s used to, but a smile nonetheless. A smile, and a taunt, just as he did so long ago. A smile, because he is no longer the shell of a man with a foot in the grave, because for once, he is okay.

For the first time in months, Qrow takes the first real step towards healing, and James does not dread what will come next.

“I wanted to.”

**Author's Note:**

> come say hello to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ospreyxxx) ✨


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